


Lights will guide you home

by sirona



Series: I stand in front of you, I'll take the force of the blow [1]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Age Difference, Allusions to PTSD, Clint Barton - sex symbol, Eyeliner, Get Together, Glitter, M/M, Perceived Unrequited Love, Pining, Protectiveness, Romance, alternate universe - pop star, ex-military, mentions of depression, pop star Clint, security expert Phil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-12
Updated: 2013-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-11 16:06:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/800574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirona/pseuds/sirona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Look at him: he is a god up there, he is burning with the kind of fire that keeps a person alive. Phil has nothing he can offer this man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lights will guide you home

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of....something. I don't know what yet. Possibly a series of fics in different verses all discoursing on Protective Phil, because I LOVE HIM. <3 
> 
> The songs referenced in this story: _The Cure and the Cause_ by Fish Go Deep (I have messed up the order of the lyrics a bit, to suit the scene) and _Fix You_ by Coldplay, from whence the title comes.
> 
> This story contains quite an age gap -- Clint is 22, Phil is...idk, maybe late 30s. Please read with your own self-care in mind.
> 
> A hundred thousand thanks to Cinnamon_Anna who is wonderful and amazing and the best hasher-out of plot I could ever ask for. <3

"Don't take your love away, your love away, your love away," Clint sings, voice sweet and pure like he can make it sometimes, resonant enough to make a body ache delightfully -- not that Phil has noticed. At all. Really.

"Your touch pours like honey on my skin," Clint croons, leaning into the mic, making love to it with his mouth, his body, hips swinging to the fast and hard beat of the music, and Phil actually has to close his eyes and turn away for a minute not to start screaming like the girls and boys in the pit at Clint's feet, worshiping their idol with their whole beings. Clint Barton, in leather pants, tight purple t-shirt, glitter sparkling at his temples and the edges of his kohl-ringed, sky-at-dawn-blue eyes, leather bracelets striping his wrists and forearms, looks like sex personified, like every desire become flesh, like the answer to every three-in-the-morning dream Phil ever had. 

Which is _not_ what Phil should be focusing on at the moment -- or at all. He's here to run Clint Barton's security, not his eyes all over the kid's body. Because he is that. A kid. His twenty-second birthday is only a month past, and Phil is a dirty, dirty old man for even _thinking_ what he's thinking. Like there was any chance _at all_ that Clint Barton would look twice at someone like him; like he doesn't have the world at his feet, and his pick of every beautiful body he could want. 

So what if on that night, one month and two days ago, as the birthday party had been raging inside the hotel suite they'd rented for the week Phil had found his quiet observation of the grounds eighteen floors below interrupted by a quiet footfall, the doors of the balcony closing gently behind him, muffling the music? So what if he'd turned to see Clint Barton padding cautiously in his direction, an apology on his gorgeous lips and a pinch to the corners of those same piercing eyes? Like he needed to apologise at all; like he was the one bothering Phil, instead of being the object of extremely inappropriate daydreams every single day of Phil's life, ever since he'd clapped eyes on the boy. 

There had been a bottle of water in one of Clint's hands, while the other had been ruffling the hair on the back of his head sheepishly, and then been stuffed in the pocket of his tight, tight black jeans. Phil had swallowed fitfully, excruciatingly aware of just how unprofessional he had been from the very start of this gig. He ought to have refused to take it, but Nick Fury, Clint's manager, had called in a favour, and Phil had been unable to resist the chance to meet in person the kid who had haunted his dreams for....longer than he should have. All Phil had wanted in the world had been to run a thumb over the crease in Clint's brow, smooth away the worry, the low-level tension Clint had been carrying for days, invisible to anyone but Phil's trained eye. All he'd wanted had been to pull Clint against his chest, let him lean on him, take his weight for just a little while so Clint could rest. As if that would have possibly been welcomed. Phil should know so much better.

Clint, thank everything holy, had been entirely unaware of the direction of Phil's thoughts, of just how closely he was being watched, for all that Phil had given the impression of not paying him much attention. He'd come to lean strong arms on the balcony railing next to Phil, had sighed deep and long, like for the first time today he could relax. Phil had had no idea what to do with that; so he'd just stood there, feeling a touch awkward, shielding Clint from the chilly wind he could feel battering the side of his face farthest away from Clint's. 

"Fuck, I hate these things," Clint had muttered after a few minutes of silence, and when Phil had answered, "So why do it?" just as quietly, he had quirked the corner of his mouth in a humourless smile. 

"Because it's expected. Because singing is the one thing I'm good at. Because being on the stage makes me feel alive like nothing--well. Almost nothing else."

Phil had felt Clint's eyes on his face right then, strangely intense, and had had to clear his throat and swallow to chase away the overwhelming urge to curl an arm over those broad shoulders, press a kiss to the kid's temple. What a strange, confusing tangle of emotions Clint woke in him, a protective surge like he hadn't felt since he got back from his last tour in Afghanistan, and yet such violent desire to take, to claim, to keep. Hopeless, the whole of it. What would someone like Clint Barton want with an old wreck like him?

Watching him on stage now drives the knowledge deeper inside, all the way through Phil's core. Look at him: he is a god up there, he is burning with the kind of fire that keeps a person alive. Phil has nothing he can offer this man. 

His distraction is unacceptable. He needs to be alert; he needs to be on top of this, he needs to be aware of every detail around him, not fixate on Clint Barton's perfect ass and lickable arms flexing in the soft golden light. He needs to see the boy creeping up the side of the stage, desperate longing in his eyes. 

Phil touches his earpiece, says softly, "Jasper, at your two, he's harmless but keep him back."

"On it," Jasper says just as softly, and a moment later he's there, taking the boy's arm and nudging him back into the fray of Clint's adoring fans desperate for a piece of him, anything they can get. Phil gets the devotion, he really does: bisexual as the day is long, sex symbol, out and proud, role model, two fingers to the world that tries to tell him he ought to be ashamed of what he is. A genuinely nice guy, supermodel looks, startlingly smart when he lets it slip through the mask of nonchalance he hides behind most of the time. Phil is aware enough to cut himself some slack; he is far from the only person in the support crew to have fallen for Clint on this tour.

Still, for all the flirting Clint does like breathing, Phil also knows there have been no orgies, no girls or boys sneaked into or out of Clint's rooms, no taking advantage of adrenaline on gig nights to take the edge off, and that, Phil thinks, more than anything is the reason why he might really be in trouble here. Not that he would have gone for that, taking the edge off, fucking Clint out of his system -- but the fact that he has grown to admire the guy as well as find him blood-stirringly attractive is making him think that this...might take some getting over.

"Clint, _Clint_ ," scream the fans when the song ends, swaying closer like a wave of bodies, chanting Clint's name like he is their leader. Clint grins, wide and bright, pumps his fist in the air to elicit even more sound from the crowd. 

"You know what's coming next," he says into the mic, voice low and a little rougher than when he started off, because it's been nearly an hour and it's taking a toll on him. The base thrums a chord, _the_ chord, and if Phil had thought the crowd was wild before, now it's verging on ridiculous, Justin-Bieber-mania, for all that he knows Clint would kill him for the comparison. The beat is slower, languid, and Clint stretches on the stage like an enormous cat, settling into the groove. The crowd settles with him, starts looking blissed-out, and Phil feels himself taking a breath that reaches deeper, to his soles, it feels, because this, this is the Clint Barton Phil first fell in l--started to admire. This song, god, the things it does to him, the things it makes him feel. It had gotten him through the last weeks of the tour, after losing three of his squad to a landmine he'd missed; it had helped the last lingering coals of hope not fizzle out inside him. 

"When you try your best, but you don't succeed," Clint sings, quiet, heartfelt, and the whole stadium is singing with him, is swaying to the rhythm of music and the words, one whole entity for those few brief minutes, and Phil thinks he knows what Clint meant, why he could never give this up -- no one should ask him to, or ever would, if they truly cared about him.

"Lights will guide you home," Clint's voice murmurs, almost intimate, eyes closed, head bowed. For one infinitesimal moment, Phil thinks Clint looks to the side, off-stage, right at him, and his heart clean stops in his chest before kicking up triple-time; his whole body jolts, his gut clenches, his face flushes, he feels choked -- before realising it's probably a trick of the light, it must be; that he's starting to lose it, because good god, is this ever one impossible thing he can't let himself believe in. 

He forces himself to tune everything out, after that; body still flushed all over, he goes through the breathing exercises his training had taught him a lifetime ago, falls into the zone where nothing exists but the job, becomes his eyes and ears only as far as keeping the impossible man on stage safe, whole. _That's_ his job, not pining hopelessly after things he can never have.

\---

Hours later, Phil stands in the pit where people had danced like there was no tomorrow, led by Clint's faultless instinct of when to play what song, and watches as the tech crew dismantles the set, deftly climbing and twisting through the gaps in the metal skeleton that engulfs the stage. The job's done, this was the last gig of the tour, and it's over now, a peculiar quiet settling over the ground despite the usual background hum of stage hands chatting as they work. Phil has his hands in the pockets of his suit pants; his comm unit is hanging down his left shoulder from the twisty cable linking it to the small box at his belt. He is trying (and, vexingly, failing) to convince himself that this is a good thing. It's over before he could dig an even deeper hole for himself, before Clint's sharp eyes caught on to what was going on. Clint is nobody's fool; it would have happened, sooner or later. He should be relieved. He should not be feeling as if his insides have been hollowed out. The truth is, this job saved him as well as damned him, gave him purpose when he was floundering, lost, trying to readjust to civilian life after so long in combat fatigues. And now it's over, and Phil is back to square one, wondering what happens next.

Nick probably has another gig lined up that he could use him for. Or, barring that, Phil's been wondering off and on through the past several months of tour whether it's worth investing some of the money his grandparents left him when they passed to set up a security consultancy. He's good at this, he knows; he's got the eyes, he's got the gut, knows where he ought to be looking even when he doesn't know _how_ he knows. Maybe he should call Maria tomorrow, see if he can convince her to set up shop; he can't be the only restless vet who needs something to fill his time so he doesn't go insane. 

A quiet, familiar footfall draws him out of his musings, and he turns with some surprise to see Clint standing not far off, in worn blue jeans and a hoodie, exhilarated exhaustion lingering over his face along with smudged remnants of glitter and eyeliner. 

"Hi," he says, sending Phil a small smile that makes his heart skip a beat. This never used to happen to him while he was patrolling hostile streets, he thinks, inwardly shaking his head at himself. 

"Hey," he replies, returning the smile. "What are you doing here? I thought you left for the airport already."

Clint wrinkles his nose (it is _not_ adorable), looking at his feet. "Naw, I didn't--I thought I'd stick around for a couple days. I'm tired of time zones. Figured I'd start letting my body get used to being in just the one again."

"Probably wise," Phil agrees mildly. He lets his eyes linger on Clint for just a little longer than strictly speaking appropriate, but this is the last chance he's going to get to see the man up close and personal for--well, likely for good. He can't afford to let himself think otherwise. 

The silence is easy between them now, which surprises Phil, but he supposes it's normal, knowing their interaction was coming to a close. No more need to edit, or hold back. This is goodbye.

He doesn't want to leave. If he could, he would stand here, on this spot, forever, if Clint would stay with him. He looks at Clint's face, and he wonders who will watch his back now, who will make sure he eats (even though Clint never knew it was Phil who ordered all that room service when he got lost in songwriting), who will get to smooth that furrow in his brow when one of his headaches threatened. He wonders who Clint will find to lean on balcony railings with, when it all got too much. He wonders, with what's probably more of a grimace than a smile, when he turned into such a ridiculous person. Clint is not his _anything_ to protect.

"I was wondering," Clint says, out of the blue, looking down at his feet and back up at Phil through his eyelashes in a move that ought to be classified as unethical warfare. He looks at Phil, and he falters, perfect mouth opening and closing once or twice, as if he was grasping for a word he couldn't find. He presses his lips together again, licks them, looks back up at Phil.

"I was wondering, if you happen to--I mean, I think I heard you might stick around in town for a while? So I was wondering if you might want to, I don't know -- get a coffee or something? While you're here. Since I'm going to be here, too. Now." He bites his lip, looking wretched.

Phil exhales explosively, feeling acutely embarrassed as he does so but unable to stop his body from reacting. " _Why?_ " he asks, brain-to-mouth filter well and truly disabled for the next minute or so until he can wrestle his composure back in place.  
Clint looks taken aback, confused blue eyes growing shuttered by the second.

"I mean," Phil hurries to clarify, unable to stand the withdrawal even when he's pretty sure he ought to be welcoming it. "Why me? There's--unless most of your friends are leaving, too?"

Clint's mouth twists in something Phil thinks is trying to be a smile but doesn't quite make the grade. "Everyone else's got family to get back to," he offers, and Phil feels gut-punched when he realises it isn't nearly the non-sequitur Clint means it to be. 

Still. "So--but--do you think _I'm_ your friend?" Phil blurts.

It takes less than a fraction of a second to realise it's exactly the wrong thing to say. Clint's entire face falls; he looks wrecked for an endless, eviscerating moment before the mask comes slamming down.

"No, god, of course--I'm sorry, it was stupid, forget I said anything," he stammers, voice hoarse like it wasn't a minute ago, even when it had been making headway against words that didn't seem to fit in his mouth. He's turning around and walking away before Phil can even make sense of what just happened; by the time he does, by the time he works out enough to call himself every name in the book and want to punch himself in the mouth, Clint is disappearing through the side doors leading out onto the street and Phil is left standing there, adrift, horrified, loathing himself with an intensity that is frankly staggering. The slump of Clint's shoulders _alone_ is more than he can bear.

All his training flies right out of the window. Before he can think better of it, his feet are moving, faster and faster until he's running full-tilt after him, the only thought in his head to remove the awful look of desolation from Clint's face. 

"Clint," he yells when he gains the street and sees Clint's small figure striding away, hands tucked in his pockets, hunched in on itself like it isn't the mildest Spring night they've had so far. Clint hesitates, falters, but he doesn't stop, and so Phil chases after him, just like he feels he's been doing for months and months now. He reaches for Clint's arm, pulling him to a stop as gently as he can when his lungs feel like they're on fire despite the negligible distance he's just covered. Clint does stop then, eyes widening with shock when they fix on Phil's face. Too late, Phil realises that all his masks are gone, too, torn down by the single-minded need to make Clint understand. Too late, he thinks to try and shield some of what must be written there, loud and clear for anyone with eyes to see. 

It's the hardest thing he has ever done, but he forces his hand to release the delicious strength of Clint's forearm, forces his feet to take a step back from the exhilarating nearness of Clint's body. He swallows, presses his eyes tightly shut. "I’m sorry," he manages, meaning--meaning _everything_ , his idiotic inferring that he weren't Clint's friend, his by now obvious, obviously unwelcome infatuation, the breaking of every professional code of ethics you cared to name. "Clint, I--"

He opens his eyes, and his words dry out. Clint is staring at him full-out, and his eyes are hungry in a way Phil had never dared to imagine, never dared to think could be aimed at _him_. 

"Jesus Christ, Phil," Clint rasps, and the next second there are huge, warm hands on his sides under his suit jacket, and there is a hot, insistent mouth on his, and he is being drawn slowly, tentatively closer to a hard chest, and he is being kissed like nothing in Clint's life has ever mattered so much. He moans, because he can't help it, because it is hard-wired in him to respond, and he lets himself melt against Clint, and lets his arms close around Clint's back, and he holds on tight, so tight, tight enough that he's sure he's crushing Clint; but when he tries to pull back, the arms that had snaked around his own waist clutch at him and refuse to let him move.

"Clint," he gasps in Clint's mouth, because fuck dignity, that's why, this is something he never thought he might get, never thought he might feel, and he is going to take advantage of every single second before Clint inevitably returns to his senses. 

"Why didn't you tell me?" gasps Clint back, before moving to kiss Phil breathless again, teeth catching on his lower lip and holding before he soothes it with a lick. 

"Didn't think--" Phil tries to explain, cuts himself off to groan as Clint kisses him deeper. "I'm so old, and you're so--so--"

Clint lets out a growl low in his throat and attacks Phil's mouth again. "Idiot," he grunts, threading his fingers through the short hairs on the back of Phil's head. "You're _amazing_. You're so calm and competent and god, Phil, I thought--what could you possibly want with a kid like me?"

"Everything," Phil whispers, too tired and too fed up with reining himself in all the time, of telling himself no over and over again. He draws his fingers wonderingly down Clint’s face, looks into those stunning eyes, and smiles wryly. "Everything, Clint. If you'll have me."

"Oh my _god_ ," Clint complains, and kisses him again until Phil can't remember what breathing felt like or why it was at all necessary. "Can we just assume that I'm crazy about you and you kinda like me too and go from there?"

"No," Phil says, grabs Clint's hair and pulls his head back just enough to get a word in edgeways -- before promptly forgetting what he meant to say when Clint makes a pleased little purr in his throat at the action.

"Shit," Phil whispers, and Clint smirks at him, and oh, yeah, he remembers what was on his mind before. "I'm so mad for you it's embarrassing," he tells him simply, and watches Clint's blue eyes fucking _shine_ in response, god, how could he have ever possibly gotten this lucky? 

Clint sighs and chases his mouth again, and Phil lets go of his grip, threading his fingers through the silky strands instead to draw him closer. 

"We should probably get off the streets before the paps catch on," Clint says some time later, and Phil is excruciatingly mortified to realise the extent to which Clint has decimated his professionalism.

"Good idea," he says firmly, reluctantly disentangling himself from Clint's embrace. Clint doesn't let him get far; he catches Phil's hands and laces their fingers together, his hold warm and tight while Phil calls for the car to come fetch them. 

"You sure about this?" Phil asks, just the once, voice small but as confident as he can make it (which is not very). 

Clint just looks at him, and for once his eyes are clear and unguarded, his face expressive, in repose, shield-less as he lets Phil drink him in.

"I'm sure," Clint says.

Phil smiles to himself, at what he has seen, and doesn't ask again.


End file.
